Chapter 8

Now, I must take you to a very interesting part of our subject—to the relation between the combustion of a candle and that living kind of combustion which goes on within us. In every one of us there is a living process of combustion going on very similar to that of a candle; and I must try to make that plain to you. For it is not merely true in a poetical sense—the relation of the life of man to a taper; and if you will follow, I think I can make this clear. In order to make the relation very plain, I have devised a little apparatus which we can soon build up before you. Here is a board and a groove cut in it, and I can close the groove at the top part by a little cover. I can then continue the groove as a channel by a glass tube at each end, there being a free passage through the whole. Suppose I take a taper or candle (we can now be liberal in our use of the word “candle,” since we understand what it means), and place it in one of the tubes; it will go on, you see, burning very well. You observe that the air which feeds the flame passes down the tube at one end, then goes along the horizontal tube, and ascends the tube at the other end in which the taper is placed.

If I stop the aperture through which the air enters, I stop combustion, as you perceive. I stop the supply of air, and consequently the candle goes out. But, now, what will you think of this fact? In a former experiment I shewed you the air going from one burning candle to a second candle. If I took the air proceeding from another candle, and sent it down by a complicated arrangement into this tube, I should put this burning candle out. But what will you say when I tell you that my breath will put out that candle? I do not mean by blowing at all, but simply that the nature of my breath is such that a candle cannot burn in it. I will now hold my mouth over the aperture, and without blowing the flame in any way, let no air enter the tube but what comes from my mouth. You see the result. I did not blow the candle out. I merely let the air which I expired pass into the aperture, and the result was that the light went out for want of oxygen, and for no other reason. Something or other—namely, my lungs—had taken away the oxygen from the air, and there was no more to supply the combustion of the candle. It is, I think, very pretty to see the time it takes before the bad air which I throw into this part of the apparatus has reached the candle. The candle at first goes on burning, but so soon as the air has had time to reach it, it goes out. And, now, I will shew you another experiment, because this is an important part of our philosophy. Here is a jar which contains fresh air, as you can see by the circumstance of a candle or gas-light burning it. I make it close for a little time, and by means of a pipe I get my mouth over it so that I can inhale the air. By putting it over water, in the way that you see, I am able to draw up this air (supposing the cork to be quite tight), take it into my lungs, and throw it back into the jar.

We can then examine it, and see the result. You observe, I first take up the air, and then throw it back, as is evident from the ascent and descent of the water; and now, by putting a taper into the air, you will see the state in which it is, by the light being extinguished. Even one inspiration, you see, has completely spoiled this air, so that it is no use my trying to breathe it a second time. Now, you understand the ground of the impropriety of many of the arrangements among the houses of the poorer classes, by which the air is breathed over and over again, for the want of a supply, by means of proper ventilation, sufficient to produce a good result. You see how bad the air becomes by a single breathing; so that you can easily understand how essential fresh air is to us.

To pursue this a little further, let us see what will happen with lime-water. Here is a globe which contains a little lime-water, and it is so arranged as regards the pipes, as to give access to the air within, so that we can ascertain the effect of respired or unrespired air upon it. Of course, I can either draw in air (through A), and so make the air that feeds my lungs go through the lime-water, or I can force the air out of my lungs through the tube (B), which goes to the bottom, and so shew its effect upon the lime-water.

You will observe that, however long I draw the external air into the lime-water, and then through it to my lungs, I shall produce no effect upon the water—it will not make the lime-water turbid; but if I throw the air _from_ my lungs through the lime-water, several times in succession, you see how white and milky the water is getting, shewing the effect which expired air has had upon it; and now you begin to know that the atmosphere which we have spoiled by respiration is spoiled by carbonic acid, for you see it here in contact with the lime-water.

I have here two bottles, one containing lime-water and the other common water, and tubes which pass into the bottles and connect them. The apparatus is very rough, but it is useful notwithstanding.

If I take these two bottles, inhaling here and exhaling there, the arrangement of the tubes will prevent the air going backwards. The air coming in will go to my mouth and lungs, and in going out, will pass through the lime-water, so that I can go on breathing and making an experiment, very refined in its nature, and very good in its results. You will observe that the good air has done nothing to the lime-water; in the other case nothing has come to the lime-water but my respiration, and you see the difference in the two cases.

Let us now go a little further. What is all this process going on within us which we cannot do without, either day or night, which is so provided for by the Author of all things that He has arranged that it shall be independent of all will? If we restrain our respiration, as we can to a certain extent, we should destroy ourselves. When we are asleep, the organs of respiration, and the parts that are associated with them, still go on with their action—so necessary is this process of respiration to us, this contact of the air with the lungs. I must tell you, in the briefest possible manner, what this process is. We consume food: the food goes through that strange set of vessels and organs within us, and is brought into various parts of the system, into the digestive parts especially; and alternately the portion which is so changed is carried through our lungs by one set of vessels, while the air that we inhale and exhale is drawn into and thrown out of the lungs by another set of vessels, so that the air and the food come close together, separated only by an exceedingly thin surface: the air can thus act upon the blood by this process, producing precisely the same results in kind as we have seen in the case of the candle. The candle combines with parts of the air, forming carbonic acid, and evolves heat; so in the lungs there is this curious, wonderful change taking place. The air entering, combines with the carbon (not carbon in a free state, but, as in this case, placed ready for action at the moment), and makes carbonic acid, and is so thrown out into the atmosphere, and thus this singular result takes place: we may thus look upon the food as fuel. Let me take that piece of sugar, which will serve my purpose. It is a compound of carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen, similar to a candle, as containing the same elements, though not in the same proportion—the proportions being as shewn in this table:—

SUGAR.

Carbon, . . . . 72 _ Hydrogen, . . . 11 | | 99 Oxygen, . . . . 88_|

This is, indeed, a very curious thing, which you can well remember, for the oxygen and hydrogen are in exactly the proportions which form water, so that sugar may be said to be compounded of 72 parts of carbon and 99 parts of water; and it is the carbon in the sugar that combines with the oxygen carried in by the air in the process of respiration—so making us like candles—producing these actions, warmth, and far more wonderful results besides, for the sustenance of the system, by a most beautiful and simple process. To make this still more striking, I will take a little sugar; or, to hasten the experiment, I will use some syrup, which contains about three-fourths of sugar and a little water. If I put a little oil of vitriol on it, it takes away the water, and leaves the carbon in a black mass. [The Lecturer mixed the two together.] You see how the carbon is coming out, and before long we shall have a solid mass of charcoal, all of which has come out of sugar. Sugar, as you know, is food, and here we have absolutely a solid lump of carbon where you would not have expected it. And if I make arrangements so as to oxidize the carbon of sugar, we shall have a much more striking result Here is sugar, and I have here an oxidizer—a quicker one than the atmosphere; and so we shall oxidize this fuel by a process different from respiration in its form, though not different in its kind. It is the combustion of the carbon by the contact of oxygen which the body has supplied to it. If I set this into action at once, you will see combustion produced. Just what occurs in my lungs—taking in oxygen from another source, namely, the atmosphere—takes place here by a more rapid process.

You will be astonished when I tell you what this curious play of carbon amounts to. A candle will burn some four, five, six, or seven hours. What, then, must be the daily amount of carbon going up into the air in the way of carbonic acid! What a quantity of carbon must go from each of us in respiration! What a wonderful change of carbon must take place under these circumstances of combustion or respiration! A man in twenty-four hours converts as much as seven ounces of carbon into carbonic acid; a milch cow will convert seventy ounces, and a horse seventy-nine ounces, solely by the act of respiration. That is, the horse in twenty-four hours burns seventy-nine ounces of charcoal, or carbon, in his organs of respiration, to supply his natural warmth in that time. All the warm-blooded animals get their warmth in this way, by the conversion of carbon, not in a free state, but in a state of combination. And what an extraordinary notion this gives us of the alterations going on in our atmosphere. As much as 5,000,000 pounds, or 548 tons, of carbonic acid is formed by respiration in London alone in twenty-four hours. And where does all this go? Up into the air. If the carbon had been like the lead which I shewed you, or the iron which, in burning, produces a solid substance, what would happen? Combustion could not go on. As charcoal burns, it becomes a vapour and passes off into the atmosphere, which is the great vehicle, the great carrier for conveying it away to other places. Then, what becomes of it? Wonderful is it to find that the change produced by respiration, which seems so injurious to us (for we cannot breathe air twice over), is the very life and support of plants and vegetables that grow upon the surface of the earth. It is the same also under the surface, in the great bodies of water; for fishes and other animals respire upon the same principle, though not exactly by contact with the open air.

Such fish as I have here [pointing to a globe of gold-fish] respire by the oxygen which is dissolved from the air by the water, and form carbonic acid; and they all move about to produce the one great work of making the animal and vegetable kingdoms subservient to each other. And all the plants growing upon the surface of the earth, like that which I have brought here to serve as an illustration, absorb carbon. These leaves are taking up their carbon from the atmosphere, to which we have given it in the form of carbonic acid, and they are growing and prospering. Give them a pure air like ours, and they could not live in it; give them carbon with other matters, and they live and rejoice. This piece of wood gets all its carbon, as the trees and plants get theirs, from the atmosphere, which, as we have seen, carries away what is bad for us and at the same time good for them,—what is disease to the one being health to the other. So are we made dependent, not merely upon our fellow-creatures, but upon our fellow-existers, all Nature being tied together by the laws that make one part conduce to the good of another.

There is another little point which I must mention before we draw to a close—a point which concerns the whole of these operations, and most curious and beautiful it is to see it clustering upon and associated with the bodies that concern us—oxygen, hydrogen, and carbon, in different states of their existence. I shewed you just now some powdered lead, which I set burning[18]; and you saw that the moment the fuel was brought to the air, it acted, even before it got out of the bottle—the moment the air crept in, it acted. Now, there is a case of chemical affinity by which all our operations proceed. When we breathe, the same operation is going on within us. When we burn a candle, the attraction of the different parts one to the other is going on. Here it is going on in this case of the lead; and it is a beautiful instance of chemical affinity. If the products of combustion rose off from the surface, the lead would take fire, and go on burning to the end; but you remember that we have this difference between charcoal and lead—that, while the lead can start into action at once, if there be access of air to it, the carbon will remain days, weeks, months, or years. The manuscripts of Herculaneum were written with carbonaceous ink, and there they have been for 1,800 years or more, not having been at all changed by the atmosphere, though coming in contact with it under various circumstances. Now, what is the circumstance which makes the lead and carbon differ in this respect? It is a striking thing to see that the matter which is appointed to serve the purpose of fuel _waits_ in its action: it does not start off burning, like the lead and many other things that I could shew you; but which I have not encumbered the table with; but it waits for action. This waiting is a curious and wonderful thing. Candles—those Japanese candles, for instance—do not start into action at once, like the lead or iron (for iron finely divided does the same thing as lead), but there they wait for years, perhaps for ages, without undergoing any alteration. I have here a supply of coal-gas. The jet is giving forth the gas, but you see it does not take fire—it comes out into the air, but it waits till it is hot enough before it burns. If I make it hot enough, it takes fire. If I blow it out, the gas that is issuing forth waits till the light is applied to it again. It is curious to see how different substances wait—how some will wait till the temperature is raised a little, and others till it is raised a good deal. I have here a little gunpowder and some gun-cotton; even these things differ in the conditions under which they will burn. The gunpowder is composed of carbon and other substances, making it highly combustible; and the gun-cotton is another combustible preparation. They are both waiting, but they will start into activity at different degrees of heat, or under different conditions. By applying a heated wire to them, we shall see which will start first [touching the gun-cotton with the hot iron]. You see the gun-cotton has gone off, but not even the hottest part of the wire is now hot enough to fire the gunpowder. How beautifully that shews you the difference in the degree in which bodies act in this way! In the one case the substance will wait any time until the associated bodies are made active by heat; but in the other, as in the process of respiration, it waits no time. In the lungs, as soon as the air enters, it unites with the carbon; even in the lowest temperature which the body can bear short of being frozen, the action begins at once, producing the carbonic acid of respiration: and so all things go on fitly and properly. Thus you see the analogy between respiration and combustion is rendered still more beautiful and striking. Indeed, all I can say to you at the end of these lectures (for we must come to an end at one time or other) is to express a wish that you may, in your generation, be fit to compare to a candle; that you may, like it, shine as lights to those about you; that, in all your actions, you may justify the beauty of the taper by making your deeds honourable and effectual in the discharge of your duty to your fellow-men.

LECTURE ON PLATINUM.

[_Delivered before the_ ROYAL INSTITUTION, _on Friday, February 22, 1861._]

Whether I was to have the honour of appearing before you this evening or not, seemed to be doubtful upon one or two points. One of these I will mention immediately; the other may or may not appear during the course of the hour that follows. The first point is this. When I was tempted to promise this subject for your attention this evening, it was founded upon a promise, and a full intent of performing that promise, on the part of my friend Deville, of Paris, to come here to shew before you a phenomenon in metallurgic chemistry not common. In that I have been disappointed. His intention was to have fused here some thirty or forty pounds of platinum, and so to have made manifest, through my mouth and my statement, the principles of a new process in metallurgy, in relation to this beautiful, magnificent, and valuable metal; but circumstances over which neither he nor I, nor others concerned, have sufficient control, have prevented the fulfilment of that intention; and the period at which I learned the fact was so recent, that I could hardly leave my place here to be filled by another, or permit you, who in your kindness have come to hear what might be said, to remain unreceived in the best manner possible to me under the circumstances. I therefore propose to state, as well as I can, what the principles are on which M. Deville proceeds, by means of drawings, and some subordinate or inferior experiments. The metal platinum, of which you see some very fine specimens on the table, has been known to us about a hundred years. It has been wrought in a beautiful way in this country, in France, and elsewhere, and supplied to the consumer in ingots of this kind, or in plates, such as we have here, or in masses, that by their very fall upon the table indicate the great weight of the substance, which is, indeed, nearly at the head of all substances in that respect. This substance has been given to us hitherto mainly through the philosophy of Dr. Wollaston, whom many of us know, and it is obtained in great purity and beauty. It is a very remarkable metal in many points, besides its known special uses. It usually comes to us in grains. Here is a very fine specimen of native platinum in grains. Here is also a nugget or ingot, and here are some small pieces gathered out of certain alluvial soils in Brazil, Mexico, California, and the Uralian districts of Russia.

It is strange that this metal is almost always found associated with some four or five other metals, most curious in their qualities and characteristics. They are called platiniferous metals; and they have not only the relation of being always found associated in this manner, but they have other relations of a curious nature, which I shall point out to you by a reference to one of the tables behind me. This substance is always native—it is always in the metallic state; and the metals with which it is found connected, and which are rarely found elsewhere, are palladium, rhodium, iridium, osmium, and ruthenium. We have the names in one of the tables arranged in two columns, representing, as you see, two groups—platinum, iridium, and osmium constituting one group; and ruthenium, rhodium, and palladium the other. Three of these have the chemical equivalent of 98½, and the others a chemical equivalent of about half that number. Then the metals of one group have an extreme specific gravity—platinum being, in fact, the lightest of the three, or as light as the lightest. Osmium has a specific gravity of 21.4, and is the heaviest body in nature; platinum is 21.15, and iridium the same; the specific gravity of the other three being only about half that, namely, 11.3, 12.1, and 11.8. Then there is this curious relation, that palladium and iridium are very much alike, so that you would scarcely know one from the other, though one has only half the weight of the other, and only half the equivalent power. So with iridium and rhodium, and osmium and ruthenium, which are so closely allied that they make pairs, being separated each from its own group. Then these metals are the most infusible that we possess. Osmium is the most difficult to fuse: indeed, I believe it never has been fused, while every other metal has. Ruthenium comes next, iridium next, rhodium next, platinum next (so that it ranks here as a pretty fusible metal, and yet we have been long accustomed to speak of the infusibility of platinum), and next comes palladium, which is the most fusible metal of the whole. It is a curious thing to see this fine association of physical properties coming out in metals which are grouped together somehow or other in nature, but, no doubt, by causes which are related to analogous properties in their situation on the surface of the earth, for it is in alluvial soils that these things are found.